


Victims of Circumstance - 1/20 – Backwards and Forwards

by motsureru



Series: Victims of Circumstance [1]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-03
Updated: 2008-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 17:38:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for Season 1 and Season 2. This is a <b>sequel </b>to <i>Any Other Night</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victims of Circumstance - 1/20 – Backwards and Forwards

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous amount of thanks to [](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/profile)[**etoile_dunord**](http://etoile-dunord.livejournal.com/), my lovely beta.

**Teaser:** _Mohinder’s affections were best served behind closed doors, to be prized and reveled in where no one else might have the pleasure._

 

.1 Backwards and Forwards

 

“Wake up. You’ve got to get to work.” A subtle nudge to Mohinder’s shoulder lead to the man turning onto his stomach, limbs shifting and curling up towards his body beneath the comforter.

“What time is it?” Mohinder mumbled, eyes remaining closed as he spoke.

“7:13,” Sylar replied, sitting up on an elbow and rubbing a hand over his own face, blinking the sand from his eyes. He nudged Mohinder again, pulling back the covers a little. “You’ll miss your bus.”

Mohinder’s head pressed back deeply into his pillow. “Ugh. Can’t work wait another half hour…?” he muttered. 

Chuckling softly, Sylar sat up fully, rubbing a hand down the man’s exposed spine. He let his fingers trail carefully down the curve there, rubbing a little circle when he was halted by the waistband of Mohinder’s boxers. “I love it when you’re all unprofessional in the morning. Now come on, get up. If you don’t shower now you’ll regret it.” Sylar slid his feet from the bed and stood up, stretching his arms out high enough for his abdomen to poke through the t-shirt he’d fallen asleep in. “I’ll make you some breakfast if you hurry.”

“Scientists who work until four in the morning shouldn’t have to get to work by eight.” Mohinder protested with a grumble, pulling himself up from the mattress. He ruffled his curls, squinting at the clock for proof of his own misfortune. A quarter after seven indeed. He scowled at the time device disdainfully.

“Scientists who stay up all night working overtime deserve what they have coming to them.” Sylar corrected playfully as he disappeared into the hallway, footsteps muted by the carpet. 

Yawning widely, Mohinder mumbled something to himself about lucky research subjects who get to sit around all day waiting to get called upon, but was rewarded with an ‘I heard that!’ shouted from the other side of the apartment. He frowned to himself and made his way to the bathroom to prepare for the day.

It had been nearly four months since Mohinder and Sylar had moved into their small place in Cercottes, a French town not far from Orléans, and nearly six months since they had left the United States all together. Cercottes was not an especially charming city; like any other it had its ups, its downs, its hotels meant to attract those who wanted to avoid the bustle of its major city next door. But Cercottes did not have to be charming for them, merely out of the way with a secluded spot or two and an apartment cheap enough and average enough for the two men to rent relatively unnoticed. 

They had, of course, had their misgivings about where to settle themselves after flight from the United States, but circumstances and offers becoming what they had, Cercottes was one of the few reasonable options left. The language barrier had been a problem for Sylar at first, but not an insurmountable one. Mohinder wasn’t sure really what his level of fluency in French was at this point; Sylar always seemed relieved that they spoke English, and he never attempted to practice his French with Mohinder, in spite of the suggestion. All Mohinder knew was that Sylar understood enough to get through the days he spent on his own, and when they were together outside these walls he played silent observer while the syllables rolled fluidly and beautifully off the Indian man’s tongue.

Their apartment wasn’t much, a little hole in the wall like most apartments meant for commuters. Mohinder wanted to keep his place of residence far enough from his workplace in Orléans to feel safe, far enough to only look over his shoulder half of the time. The landlady hadn’t asked questions when they only wanted one room, and Mohinder and Sylar were more encouraged when she hadn’t asked any questions at all besides whether or not they could pay the deposit fee up front.

On a whole the apartment was little more than three and a half rooms; one entered through a short hallway with a coat closet, only to be met by the living room. Square and simple, to the left of that was an open kitchen not unlike Mohinder’s back in New York, though this one was divided from the main area by a small island of cabinets beside which stools sat as an excuse for a dining table. To the right of the living room was another hallway, one which led to storage closets and eventually the bedroom, where Mohinder housed his small desk. In all, the apartment was barely a suitable space for two, but Mohinder and Sylar were cautious not to get terribly comfortable anywhere; a quick escape never seemed too out of the question.

Scratching the back of his head and stifling a yawn, Sylar listened to the distant sounds of Mohinder stumbling into his morning shower. He covered an egg he was putting on to fry and began to rummage through their fridge for fruit to slice. The brief rumble of Mohinder’s phone on the living room table caught his attention, and Sylar looked up and over the cabinets sharply, watching with keen eyes as the item began to vibrate a path towards the floor. 

Frowning, Sylar set down his melons on the counter walked around to fetch the phone. “ONE MESSAGE” stood boldly on the miniature screen. Sylar opened the device with a flick of his thumb and hit enter when the mail icon popped up. 

**SEBASTIAN**

****

 

**Awake?**

 

-the text read.

Sylar’s frown deepened, and he closed the phone, setting it back down. No matter how many times Mohinder spoke highly of the man and assured Sylar (as if he needed to be reassured?) of the man’s status as a friend and colleague, Sylar still found himself irritated by the appearance of Sebastian in their lives. Was it really necessary to message Mohinder and be sure he was awake? It wasn’t as if Mohinder was Sebastian’s responsibility. Every time Sylar thought of Mohinder being constantly ‘checked up on’ by his co-worker, he felt a keen sense of insult in Mohinder’s stead. What did this Sebastian know anyway? Colleague or not, he had no idea what Sylar- what Mohinder- was capable of. Mohinder was not a child. He did not need endless attention.

“Eggs?” Mohinder’s voice snapped Sylar out of his thoughts. 

The man looked up, met by the sight of Mohinder hopping a little on a foot to pull a sock on in his hurry. He had a towel wrapped around his neck to catch the stray droplets of water from his curls, and he had yet to button the top button to his pale blue dress shirt. Instantly and unconsciously a smile appeared on Sylar’s face. Mohinder always seemed to be in a perpetual state of amusing dishevelment. He supposed that was what made the times Mohinder straightened up that much more attractive.

“Yeah, I was just about to cut up some fruit too.” Sylar replied, heading back into the kitchen. He listened as Mohinder snatched up his phone from the table and slipped into the kitchen behind him, narrowly dodging Sylar’s hips to reach above him for the cabinet door. Pulling out two plates, sets of utensils, and glasses, Mohinder set them on the island table and went to fetch the orange juice. As he turned back Sylar was placing a piece of bread on his plate and nudging the egg out on top with a spatula. “Better hurry,” he warned, “You’ve only got fifteen minutes or so.”

Mohinder sat down, smiling a little as a plate of cut fruit was placed out next. When he noticed Sylar didn’t have a second batch of eggs in the making, his smile faded away. “You didn’t make any for yourself.” He pointed out, grabbing his fork and knife to make quick work of the meal before him.

Leaning over the counter between them on his elbows, Sylar smiled and picked up a piece of melon with his fingers, taking a small bite. “I’ll make something once you’re gone. I’ve got all the time in the world, unlike you.”

“Smile about it all you like,” Mohinder said before taking a gulp of orange juice. “You’ll be under the needle again soon enough, and we’ll see who’s enjoying themselves then.” It was an empty, playful threat that Mohinder couldn’t help but enjoy whenever he made it.

“Uh huh. Then we’ll see what you get when you come home, doctor.” A sneaky grin flitted across Sylar’s lips and he watched Mohinder raise an eyebrow to that, sucking some fruit juice from his thumb. Suddenly Mohinder gave a jump, which made Sylar raise his own eyebrow in return. Digging into his pocket, Mohinder pulled out his buzzing phone, flipping it open. He gave a breathless chuckle and slipped it away, returning to his eggs.

“Mommy checking up on you?” Sylar commented, pushing the plate of fruit towards Mohinder and standing straight again. He turned his back to the man and went to the sink, turning on the water to start dishes.

Mohinder gave a small roll of his eyes and quickly cleared his plate of the last of its contents. “Sebastian just wants to make sure I get to work on time- like you, you know. I got a rather embarrassing lecture from my superior the last time I slept in. Even if Sebastian doesn’t mind I’m supposed to be on a regular work schedule.”

“I’m sure.” Sylar replied dryly, hands working at scrubbing down the cutting board. He listened to the sigh of irritation Mohinder might have thought barely audible, but found himself somehow surprised when he felt Mohinder’s arms sliding under his own and around his waist, squeezing. 

“We’ve had this conversation before,” he began, warm front pressed to Sylar’s shoulder blades. Mohinder smelled fresh, like soap and a touch of cinnamon, the result of some sort of charm his mother gave him to place in his closet with his clothes. “There’s nothing you need to be worried about.”

“I’m _not_ worried. I just find him irritating.” Sylar replied, feeling his body relax in Mohinder’s grasp. A wet curl tickled the back of his neck and he felt Mohinder place his lips there afterwards. Then the man released Sylar and stepped back.

“Well, you don’t have to go to work with him, so be thankful for that. Are you coming into the city for lunch?” Mohinder reached around and slipped his dishes into the soapy water before Sylar.

“I’ll call you if I do.” he replied, glancing over at Mohinder as the man transferred his damp hair towel onto Sylar’s shoulder with a smile. Finally he was rewarded with a quirk of Sylar’s lips in return. “Call me if you need anything.” 

Mohinder pressed his lips briefly to Sylar’s cheek, gave it a pat, and pulled away. “See you later.” He turned and gave a little hurried jog towards the hall, to where Sylar had set out Mohinder’s briefcase and his shoes the night before.

Listening to the lock fall into place as the door shut, Sylar leaned on his palms over the sink, giving a brief sigh. What on earth was he going to do with himself today?

 

 

**Four Months Ago**

**(2 Months after Kirby Plaza)**

 

 

“Did you know you’re a hundred times more likely to die in a car accident than in an airplane crash?”

“…I know you’re trying to be reassuring, but I’d rather not think about how likely I am to die any time soon. And you told me this last time.” Mohinder replied wearily, folding over his newspaper and setting it on his lap. He lifted his eyes to the departures monitor, watching as the digital numbers flickered when the hour changed. Ten minutes until they could board. He tapped his fingertips against his knee anxiously.

When Mohinder thought about it, he realized that Sylar had been just as irritating on their original flight from Des Moines to London. Granted, that had been his first time flying, and Sylar had been buzzing with the anxiousness of a ten year old that he could scarcely contain. An apparent genius at ground travel, but having never touched the air, he was full of questions about processes, about how to navigate airports properly, when to go through customs and checks… Mohinder could hardly believe at that time that this Sylar was the same person he had come to know as a violent killer for a while. He could almost not believe it was the same man who so easily seduced him either. Mohinder had answered Sylar’s questions patiently then, with a small touch of amusement on his features betraying the laughter he had to resist. In the end Sylar was as human as anyone else. The problem now was that most anyone else who asked incessant questions and required constant attention was dreadfully annoying. This time, although Sylar had restrained himself to a low attention span and mindless one-sided conversation to veil his excitement over flying, Mohinder was not in the mood.

Mohinder was ignoring him. Sylar frowned slightly to himself, shifting in his uncomfortable plastic airport seat and stretching his long legs out a little further into the aisle. Mohinder hadn’t been this irritable on the first flight, nor any other trips they had made in the past month, traveling about England aimlessly, allowing themselves some down time for tourism and new experiences before more serious matters came to pass. As Sylar watched the monitor shift again, he sighed, resisting the urge to put his chin to his palm like a bored child. Mohinder had at least spoken to him as they waited for the flight to England, but with the words “Destination: Chennai, India” hovering in white letters against a blue screen above their heads, Mohinder only grew more aggravated with each passing minute, and Sylar didn’t know quite how to cope with that.

“Passengers for international flight 687 to Chennai may now board, first class only.” –came the soft announcement. The first call was in English, whereas the second sounded in several dialects Sylar couldn’t understand. No matter. Mohinder was standing up quickly with his laptop case, going to line up for their coach seats ahead of time like everyone else. Sylar followed in silence this time, picking up his bag of books for the flight. He watched Mohinder, his movements, his eyes, the small curve downward of his mouth. Sylar imagined Mohinder knew he was observing him, and that knowledge too, he was sure, made that unpleasant expression cross Mohinder’s face. 

Turning his head away finally, Sylar looked back down the line of people shuffling their belongings like cattle milling about a field. Never had he seen the dregs of society more clearly than in airports, Sylar thought. Angry mothers yanking children, tired businessmen screaming into cellular phones, bratty young people exchanging insipid banter that bordered on cruel simply because the very atmosphere of airports made them tense. But the worst, he thought, were couples. Couples he had seen either exchange useless, tearful goodbyes full of gawky, graceless sobs, or part with attempts at sensual touches and glances meant to persuade one to stay or wish they had. The manipulation was often poorly executed and tasteless, he determined. There were some moments, however, that caught his interest. He chose to break the longer moments down into smaller, more interesting gestures, and absorbed them piece by piece.

Sylar found himself watching them fastidiously, taking in the details of everyday lives that were not his own. A touch of a hand here, a kiss on the cheek there; those subtleties of affection that made him think of a manner which he might, in turn, use to make Mohinder smile. But these examples were flawed, he realized, as they were limited to women and men: limited to relationships that gave him impressions of artificiality. The more he viewed coy, deceiving eyes layered in shades of blue and violet, fake smiles and patronizing laughs, the more Sylar realized just how much he disliked the other sex. The men too, he found to be beneath him, for their infatuated, mindless fawning over bare skin and exposed cleavage made them less worthy of his attention. Had Mohinder ever been slave to such idiocy before? 

No, Mohinder was above such trivialities. Even as a man, Mohinder was above such base cravings. He was above such objectification. Sylar slid a covert gaze back over to Mohinder. He observed the angle of Mohinder’s jawbone, the darkened skin where prickles of stubble penetrated the surface. Sylar never ceased to enjoy consuming that image, to drag his eyes slowly down the pulsing artery of Mohinder’s throat to the trickle of flesh revealed by the open color of a pale green shirt. Mohinder’s form was elegant, not like those gaudy, jewelry-toting imbeciles. His form was virile, not like those soulless drones in drab suits with drab ties whose heads turned only to the sound of heels. Mohinder carried an air of class, and the aptitude to support it. His affections were infinitely more graceful, chic, but not a public affair. They were best served behind closed doors, to be prized and reveled in where no one else might have the pleasure.

“Sylar, what are you doing? Come on!” –Mohinder’s insistent voice broke him from his thoughts. 

Blinking several times, the gap between him and Mohinder’s perfect and sensual figure grew wider as Sylar looked up to his angry eyes, set ten feet apart from him, waiting for Sylar to walk forward in the line. Sylar cleared his throat quickly and crossed the space, glancing around his shoulder at the dirty looks he received from impatient passengers waiting to board. The chilling glare Sylar cast back made them all rethink their impatience. He hurried along after Mohinder, pulling his boarding pass from his jacket pocket with an inaudible sigh.

Sylar felt positive now that the flight would be best flown in silence, so he attempted little to no words after they had settled in their seats. Whatever was bothering Mohinder he was clearly not privileged to, and that unsettled Sylar most of all. The most he did to attempt to bridge the discomfort between them was place a reassuring hand on Mohinder’s leg, but the man simply shot a warning look in Sylar’s direction, taking it for something suggestive. Mohinder’s dark eyes scolded, ‘We’re in public.’ without saying the words, and Sylar’s hand retreated to cross his arms over his chest. He stared out the plane’s window instead, a deep frown on his lips. All he could do in the next hours was brood about what Mohinder’s problem was and contemplate the many ways he could try to make it better before the man snapped.

 

“ _One room or two?_ ”

“ _One please. On an upper level, if you can._ ” The Tamil was exchanged effortlessly, and Mohinder pulled out his wallet, shuffling through bills.

Sylar was looking around him here and there, trying to be subtle. Ever since they’d arrived in Chennai forty minutes ago he had been much more alert than on the flight, glancing this way and that, resisting painfully the urge to ask questions. Even though Mohinder said the time difference put them close to eleven at night, Sylar found the bustle of people through the city to be incredible, namely because it was the most foreign place he had ever been. Chennai was no different than New York in its city qualities; its crowdedness, its share of foul and sweet odors drifting through the air in constant battle, its shops and its hagglers all shouting at once, but the differences therein were enticing. Most of all, Sylar loved to hear the languages floating about. He loved to take in sounds that were far different than New York’s brash language. There was something charming to him about the foreign here, whereas the New Yorkers he spent his entire life despising simply didn’t capture him after so long.

More words slipped between Mohinder and the front attendant, and Sylar’s attention was drawn back to the motel desk. Mohinder motioned with two fingers, causing Sylar to raise an eyebrow in suspicion. The man nodded and handed Mohinder a key.

“Come on.” Mohinder stated, taking his small piece of luggage and laptop case towards a stairway to their right.

“They only had upstairs rooms?” Sylar asked, feeling at once the temperature difference as they climbed. It felt like a mix between spring and summer in Chennai, not the winter they’d felt in England. And though it shouldn’t have been terribly uncomfortable, Sylar realized quickly that this motel, for all its floors, didn’t have air conditioning put-putting away in the windows. The temperature ascended with each flight of stairs.

“No, they had downstairs ones.” Mohinder replied. “But I wouldn’t trust windows anyone could climb into. I’d feel much more at ease on a higher floor.”

“And what floor are we?” the man asked, glancing up as level two passed them by.

“Four.”

Sylar felt his comfort sinking with his heart. 

It was the heat, he supposed that few minutes later, that Mohinder had anticipated when he requested two beds. At least he hoped that was the only reasoning. The air felt so thick on the fourth floor that Sylar had to wonder if anyone had simply suffocated up here in the summer months. Sylar made it his business to remove as much clothing as possible as quickly as possible, and gave Mohinder a strange look when he hadn’t done the same.

“I just need to make a quick call.” Mohinder countered that look, avoiding Sylar’s eyes as he pulled out his new phone from his pocket. Without another word Mohinder slipped out of the door and shut it as though that might actually bar the other man from hearing his every word. Sylar eyed his exiting form with a questioning gaze, but let it go as he went to the window, anticipating a greater need for air.

Mohinder closed the door behind him and took a deep breath, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand as he dialed with his other. He could feel his shoulders tight and his stomach off-kilter, jaw set a little on edge. He wondered if Sylar was standing in the middle of the room listening, or perhaps trying to cool down the air with his abilities.

Pressing the phone to his ear, Mohinder pinched between his eyes, holding his breath. The phone rang several times, but he let it continue until finally the sound of a voice on the other end was his reward.

“Hello?” –came the sleepy tone.

“Hello, Mother?” Mohinder replied softly. “I’m coming home tomorrow.”  



End file.
